But, my son, please forget
by if-llamas-could-fly
Summary: Sammy was just a baby when Mary died. He didn't-couldn't- remember her. Could he?


**A/N Ugh. I was just on this marathon of Fanfic-reading, and I read like five-hundred stories in three hours, so... yeah. One of them (I can't remember which) talked about Sam's POV of ****_the_**** fire. So, after much thinking, ****_this_**** was born! It's actually the first time I've made a point to not do any John-bashing, because I decided that I love/hate him equally. Enjoy! :) **_~Sammy_

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As John watched the fire finally die down into glowing embers, his boys held against his chest, he cried. The firemen and paramedics surrounding them offered sympathetic smiles, but John paid them no heed. All he could see was the smoke staining his hands, the horror in Dean's gaze, and the wide-eyed innocence of little Sammy.

John watched his boys curl up together on the lumpy bed, and a sad smile passed over his lips. Dean's eyes darted back and forth behind his eyelids, and a small whimper emerged from the back of his throat. The smile slid off of John's face. He stepped forward to comfort his son, but before he could reach out and brush a hand over Dean's hair, his eldest son wrapped his arms around little Sammy, and his young face relaxed again. Dean mumbled in his sleep, even as his grip on the baby tightened infinitesimally. _"I won't let the fire get you Sammy."_ John could feel his heart crack. Sammy snuffled, still dozing, relaxing into Dean's grip. John could feel his heart break. He sat down on his bed, and he cried. John could feel his heart shatter. Dean's innocence was gone, swept away in a blaze of heat and evil. John could feel his heart crumble to dust. But at least Sammy was still safe in his ignorance.

John hated fire. Hated it with a vengeance. Hated all those hunts that other hunters called _simple salt'n'burns_. There was _nothing_ simple about them. The first time he'd had to do one, he had collapsed to the ground, tears streaming down his face, sobs shaking through him, even as the flames danced over the bones of some unfortunate soul. _Oh Mary,I'm so sorry. I miss you. Oh God, I'm sorry my love._ John knew that Dean hated fire too. When he had taken Dean for his first hunt, he had watched as his son lit the match without even a flinch, but the second the flames leapt up from the grave, roaring and crackling, he had seen the shadows in those green eyes. He had seen the slight trembling of his son's small frame, and John never hated fire more than he did in that moment. Sammy wasn't angry with fire. He loved it. He loved watching the candles that flickered and danced in the darkness. He loved staring into the small fire John had made when he took them camping. Sammy loved watching the bright wisps of heat and light throw his surroundings into a different perspective. He hated his first hunt, hated digging up the coffin, hated having to toss salt and gasoline over the dry bones, but there was no fear in his eyes when the fire flared up. No hate, no anger, no horror. Just a fascination that one would expect from any boy of ten. And once again, John found himself thanking a God he didn't believe in for not letting Sam remember _that_ fire_._

John watched as his sons worked away. Dean was cleaning and reassembling the guns, Sammy was working on his homework. John went back to pretending like he couldn't care less, but he kept watching his sons from the corner of his eye. Dean packed up the weapon bag and the cleaning kit, picked them up, and headed out to the Impala, probably to load them back into the trunk. Sam fiddled with his pencil, peering at the paper in front of him, singing softly. John disregarded the sound, until, with a start, he realized why it sounded so familiar. The quiet melody of _Hey Jude_ drifted through the room, and John remembered all the times it had been a _different_ voice singing it, a _different_ person smiling down at a wide-eyed four year old, and a gurgling baby. A _different_ time, when that song was _home, _when listening to it didn't make his entire being ache with longing. John blinked the mistiness away from his eyes just as Dean slipped back into the room. His elder son paused when he heard his brother, confusion and slight pain flashing across his features, before being replaced with a smirk. He hit his little brother lightly on the back of his head and said to _stop singing like a drowning cat and finish your homework, we've got sparring to do. _John's eyes tightened around the edges. He hadn't sung that song in years, only resorting to humming it when infant Sammy just _wouldn't_ calm down, and John could think of nothing else. Dean hadn't even liked _listening_ to that song after _that_ night, he would shut down whenever it played on the radio until John changed the station. Sammy didn't remember it. He _couldn't_. It was just a coincidence that his little boy was singing it. Because Sam didn't remember that night. Sam was safe from that terror.

John sat in his big black truck, watching his younger son from the shadows. Sam looked _happy_. Safe, and normal, and content, and just so _perfect_. A lithe, pretty, young blonde was hanging off of his arms, kissing his cheek, and laughing at something funny his son had said. Three years he hadn't talked to his son, and every day weighed him down. Sam had stormed out, but John had been the one to make sure his son stayed away. Dean resented him for it, he knew. Sam had been shocked by it, he knew that too. But it was better this way. It was better that Sam get away from this family, get away from its curse. Get away from the two people who couldn't move on, couldn't look at a fire without flinching, couldn't listen to a song without becoming irrationally angry, couldn't give Sam what he deserved. Mary had taken one look at Sammy, nestled in her arms, and had proudly declared, _he's gonna be real special, you'll see. He's gonna be somebody great when he grows up_. John had watched her predictions come true with every passing day. But he did what he had to, he did what he did, to keep his boy safe. Sam had waved that acceptance letter in his face, all dimples and bright grins, and damn it, John had been ridiculously _proud_. But then Sam said that he wasn't going away forever, that he'd still meet his family as often as he could, that he would help them with hunts on his breaks. Something inside John just _snapped_. Because Sam was supposed to just _leave_. Leave, and not come back. Stay away, stay in his normal, not come back to this horror for his vacation. Sam was supposed to be _normal_. So John pushed him away. Because Sam was happy now. Because Sammy didn't remember watching his mother burn alive, didn't remember that demon. Because Sam had gotten away, had escaped the nightmares. Because Sam was _safe_.

John watched as his youngest stomped away fuming. John wished he could stop having to push his little boy away, but it seemed that that was how it had to be. John _had_ to save Dean. Hid eldest was dying, and John knew how to save him. There was _no way_ that he wouldn't do it. Because Dean was his son. Because Sam needed his brother. Because Dean had to keep Sammy safe, from the world, and from himself. John limped into the basement, summoned that yellow-eyed bastard, and resisted the urge to just shoot the SOB point-blank with _the_ gun in his hands. He made the deal for Dean's life, gave up _the_ gun, gave up his own soul. And then, right before that demonic-ass disappeared, he sneered at John. _You know John, you've been wrong about Sam. He __**does**__ remember. Not __**everything, **__of course, but he remembers watching her burn. _John had shaken his head, denial and dread shooting through him. Because demons lie, but they tell the truth when they know that it will hurt you more. "No, he can't remember, he was just a baby. How could he remember?" The demon had smiled. _You always knew that Sammy was different, didn't you? Always saying and doing things that he shouldn't? Always knowing things that he should have forgotten? He __**remembers**__, John. And you can't save him_. The demon disappeared, and then John was in his bed again, Dean standing in front of him, whole, and very much alive. And Sam was somewhere else, and he _remembers_. John pulled Dean close to him, and his son's bewildered eyes widened as he whispered his final words. "_You have to save Sammy, Dean. And if you can't save Sam, you'll have to kill him_." And it broke John to say the words, but he said them anyway. Because he was already broken beyond repair. Because Dean would find a way to save his brother. Because if Sam couldn't be saved from this, then dying was better than living with those memories. And then John's world faded to black.

John clawed his way past the hundreds of demons thronging at the gate. He pushed and shoved his way to the opening, and finally the clear night's air reached his ravaged soul. He was standing in a graveyard, that demon (A_zazel_, according to the whispers in hell...) smirking as he threw a figure, _Dean_, into a headstone, the young man almost losing consciousness. Sam was standing completely still, petrified, as the demon kept him frozen in place, yellow eyes flashing. John rushed forward, and, somehow, threw a punch at the sick bastard. The thwack of soul hitting flesh was oddly satisfying. John's boys stared up at their father in amazement for a second, before Dean whipped out a gun (_the colt, his boys got it back_) and fired, the bullet firing straight into Azazel's forehead. The poor body possessed by the demon flickered and flashed with orange light before collapsing to the hard ground, and John finally allowed himself a smile. It was over. John looked up to see Dean looking at him with awe and the slightest bit of betrayal in his unfocused eyes, and John wished he could have not left that last burden, the boy already had so much weight on his shoulders. John could feel _something_ tugging at his soul; not the dark oily tendrils of Hell, but something pure, and _good_. If John had been a believer, he would have thought it to be Heaven. Just as the pull grew too strong for him to resist, something slipped from behind Sam's eyes. That mask that Sammy had been wearing, John realized, for the past twenty three years. Sam's breath hitched, and when John looked over at him, he almost wept. In relief, and in sorrow. Because Sammy, his sweet little naïve kid, _remembered_. And then the fascination, the innocence, the wonder and the ignorance was gone, and John could finally see the horror. John flickered in and out of existence, and right before he dived into that all-consuming light, he had one final thought. _I'm sorry you had to remember, Sammy._

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**A/N Okay, so, yeah. Wow, that turned out... pretty awesome, if I may say so myself. Leave a review, it helps me write more one-shots. My muse is a review-addict. :) **_~Sammy_


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